Chapter Twenty-Four

Penelope had hoped to discover words of reconciliation in Liam's letter but had been mentally preparing herself for utter rejection. That what she'd received was a little bit of both and a tremendous amount of what felt like unshakable resignation hurt even more than she'd anticipated. If Liam had been boiling mad at her, there would have been some hope that when his anger cooled, they could mend the current breach.

"Your expression matches how I felt reading my family's letter," Niles said softly, still sitting beside her, "which worries me."

She let the letter rest on her lap. "I wrote to him with such high hopes, telling him how much I love him and want him in my life, how I didn't want there to be a rift between us. I pleaded with him to consider returning to Pledwick Manor, or staying at Fairfield for a time, so we needn't be separated by an entire sea. I offered an entirely sincere olive branch."

"And he rejected you?" Niles took her hand once more. He had unwrapped his hands while she'd been reading her letter.

"Have you ever read a letter that felt like a shrug?" she asked.

"He expressed indifference, then?"

"Worse even than that. Indifference with an ultimatum." Whatever she might have been expecting, it would never have been that. "He says no one will ever marry me so long as I retain ownership of Fairfield and that if I decide to be flexible about that, he might be willing... not to keep trying to find me a husband, necessarily, but to even just see me again." Her posture drooped; she couldn't help it. "My mother might refuse either way."

Niles rubbed her hands gently between his. "You don't speak of her often."

"She can be... difficult." Penelope shook her head. "Appearance and social cachet are everything to her. So long as I am bolstering her standing and contributing to the flawless facade she insists on, she's pleased with me. Otherwise, I'm a waste."

"You have never been a waste, Penelope. Not ever. And you never will be, regardless of what anyone, including your family, says."

She leaned her head against his shoulder. "I gave up on my mother long ago, I'm afraid. I keep the peace with her, but I have no expectation of affection. But I thought Liam... I never thought he would turn away from me so entirely."

"Would you ever consider giving up your claim on Fairfield in order to reconcile with him?"

The very idea struck painful fear directly to her heart. "I've known Fairfield was mine from the time I was a little girl. It was a source of strength and reassurance my whole life. Women have so little power over any aspect of our existence. Our residence, income, comings and goings, our very persons are, by law, not our own. Any and all of those things can be taken from us on a whim. We spend so much of our existence desperately trying not to upset those who have the power we are prevented from having, knowing our survival depends upon it. But Fairfield meant I always had something that couldn't be taken away. So long as I had that estate and the ability to make it what I chose, I could breathe. If I lose Fairfield, I will be holding my breath for the rest of my life. Liam doesn't understand that at all. I don't think the men of this country truly realize how chronically starved of air the women truly are."

"Do you know what I think, Penelope Seymour?"

The question was kindly worded, but she felt herself grow tense just the same. "That I talk too much and have too many opinions?" She'd certainly been told that before. Her mother had often made that very declaration.

"No."

She looked over at him at last, fully expecting to see pity in his expression. What she saw was mischief.

"I think," he said, "you need to hit something."

"I what ?" A laugh bubbled without warning.

"You need to curl your hands into fists, think of all the things and people who are frustrating you, then hit something as hard as you possibly can."

"Are you volunteering?"

He grinned almost wickedly, which she found she liked very much indeed. "While I confess I would probably enjoy sparring a bit with you, I was going to suggest the bag of straw I was pummeling when you first arrived." He motioned to it hanging from the rafters.

The thought of him when she'd first arrived sent a wave of awareness over her that she quickly tucked away. Liam thought her scandalous for wanting to run Fairfield as she saw fit; he'd have apoplexy if he knew she was struggling not to swoon at the memory of Niles Greenberry shirtless and rippling muscled.

"Is there a trick to hitting a bag of straw?" she asked.

"There's some technique, but when undertaken for therapeutic purposes, the most important thing is vehemence."

"Will you show me how?"

He was still holding her hand, so it was easy as anything to walk with him back to where he'd been standing earlier.

She set her letter on a windowsill nearby, then stood facing the bag. "Do I just hit it?"

"Let's get you positioned first. Make a fist, and hold your arm out in front of you, as if you've just hit the bag."

She did as instructed, her right fist just barely grazing the edge of her target.

Niles stood behind her and set his hands on her shoulders. "You need to move a little closer to the bag." He nudged her toward it.

"But this close, my extended arm goes past the edge of the bag," she said.

From surprisingly near her ear, he said, "It's supposed to."

And before she could sort out why the tickle of his breath on her neck was so enjoyable, he stepped away, walking to where her fist hovered beside the bag.

He took her hand in his and tapped a finger on her thumb. "Your thumb needs to be outside your fist, not inside."

"Wouldn't it be safer, better protected like that?"

He gently extricated her thumb. "It's more likely to be broken if tucked inside."

"This is more dangerous than I thought."

He set her thumb atop the first knuckles of the neighboring fingers, then ran his thumb lightly over it. "Yes, it is," he whispered.

All thoughts momentarily fled her mind at the slow, lingering brush of his fingers. Something about having seen such irrefutable proof of how strong he truly was made the gentleness of his touch all the more upending.

He seemed to re-collect himself before she did. A quick breath and he was back on task. "Pull your right arm back now, bent at the elbow. And set your right foot a little farther back than your left. Not overly much—you don't want to throw off your balance—but a little."

She adjusted her feet, making changes as he suggested them.

"Your arm and shoulder position is important too." Niles set his hands on her shoulders and adjusted the angle so she faced the bag but with her left shoulder a little forward and her right a little back. His hands slid to her arms, tucking her elbows in and raising her fists up toward her face.

She tried to pay attention to his explanation, but his hands on her arms, even through the thick layers of her riding coat, were incredibly distracting.

His hand wrapped around her right fist. Heavens, it was difficult to even breathe.

"As you punch the bag, thrust your right shoulder forward with it, and twist your arm so your fist hits the bag straight on. And hit it with your knuckles, not the flat of your fingers."

Penelope nodded. It was impossible to actually speak.

Niles let go of her hand, much to her dismay. He placed himself on the other side of the hanging bag, his shoulder leaning into it and his hands holding it in place. "Whenever you're ready, Penelope. Think of everything and everyone who has cut off your air over the years, and hit the bag with every ounce of frustration you feel."

She closed her eyes for just a moment. She thought of those in Dublin society who had made her feel so unwelcome. Of being labeled the Little Banshee by her neighbors. Of Mother wishing aloud that Penelope's beauty hadn't proven an utter waste. Of Liam abandoning her and brushing aside her attempts to make things right.

She tensed her arms and shoulders and opened her eyes once more. She followed Niles's instructions as precisely as she could. Her clenched knuckles stung as they made contact with the rough burlap. But it was a cleansing sting. Invigorating.

A surge of excitement swept over her. "Niles!"

He stepped out from around the bag, grinning as if she'd just won some sort of pugilistic championship; she assumed such a thing existed. "It's very satisfying, isn't it?"

She bounced, something she hadn't done in ages. "Amazing. May I hit it again?"

He laughed as he returned to his position of keeping the bag from flying about. "Whenever you're ready, Penelope."

She hit it again, harder this time now that she knew she wouldn't miss. It really was tremendously satisfying. She spun around, laughing with delight.

"Careful," Niles said, a smile in his tone. "You'll find yourself a devotee of pugilism before you even realize it."

"Oh, Niles." She threw her arms around him. "Thank you."

He pulled her into a true embrace, tucking her close. She leaned into him, reveling in the warmth and strength he exuded.

"I probably don't smell overly nice at the moment," he said.

"If you let go, I'll utilize my newfound skills to pummel you."

Penelope felt him laugh, even though he didn't make a sound. She slipped one hand to his chest and laid it, open palm, over his heart. She'd felt him breathe and laugh, but she wanted to feel the rhythm of his heart, to know if it was beating as ardently as hers was.

He set his hand atop hers. Such strong hands but touching her so gently.

"I'm sorry I didn't go to Cornwall," he whispered.

She closed her eyes, breathing deep, feeling the moment. "And I am glad I chased you to Yorkshire."

His lips brushed over her forehead. Every inch of skin his lips touched tingled. Her heart raced, but the feeling was too distracting for her to be able to make out his pulse beneath her hand.

He lightly kissed her temple. "I'm glad, too, Penelope."

She turned her face just a little. Just enough. And he didn't need to be asked. Niles kissed her, a soft and tender tease of his lips on hers. His powerful arms held her fast, one hand splayed against her back as the other cupped the nape of her neck, keeping her head at just the right angle to continue kissing her.

She kept one hand pressed to his heart and wove the fingers of her other through his thick, silky, brown hair. His sigh told her he enjoyed her touch as much as she delighted in his.

She'd so often told herself that she could be content with a marriage that simply let her keep her estate. In this one kiss, she discovered the truth she'd not yet been willing to confess: she wanted—needed—to be loved. And in a rare bit of fortunate fate, she had found someone who might.